World War II. The Romans were shocked by these deaths and the city closed down the day
the boys were buried. The wide majority of Italians want nothing to do with George Bush’s
war. The involvement was the decision of Silvio Berlusconi, Italy’s prime minister (more com-
monly referred to around these parts as l’idiota). This intellect-free, soccer-club-owning busi-
nessman, with his oily film of corruption and sleaze, who regularly embarrasses his fellow cit-
izens by making lewd gestures in the European parliament, who has mastered the art of
speaking l’aria fritta (“fried air”), who expertly manipulates the media (not difficult when you
own it), and who generally behaves not at all like a proper world leader but rather like a Wa-
terbury mayor (that’s an inside joke for Connecticut residents only—sorry), has now engaged
the Italians in a war they see as none of their business whatsoever.
“They died for freedom,” Berlusconi said at the funeral of the nineteen Italian soldiers, but
most Romans have a different opinion: They died for George Bush’s personal vendetta. In
this political climate, one might think it would be difficult to be a visiting American. Indeed,
when I came to Italy, I expected to encounter a certain amount of resentment, but have re-
ceived instead empathy from most Italians. In any reference to George Bush, people only nod
to Berlusconi, saying, “We understand how it is—we have one, too.”
We’ve been there.
It is odd, then, that Luca would want to use this birthday to celebrate an American Thanks-
giving, given these circumstances, but I do like the idea of it. Thanksgiving is a nice holiday,
something an American can freely be proud of, our one national festival that has remained re-
latively uncommodified. It’s a day of grace and thanks and community and—yes—pleasure. It
might be what we all need right now.
My friend Deborah has come to Rome from Philadelphia for the weekend, to celebrate the
holiday with me. Deborah’s an internationally respected psychologist, a writer and a feminist
theorist, but I still think of her as my favorite regular customer, back from the days when I was
a diner waitress in Philly and she would come in for lunch and drink Diet Coke with no ice and
say clever things to me over the counter. She really classed up that joint. We’ve been friends
now for over fifteen years. Sofie will be coming to Luca’s party, too. Sofie and I have been
friends for about fifteen weeks. Everybody is always welcome on Thanksgiving. Especially
when it also happens to be Luca Spaghetti’s birthday.
We drive out of tired, stressed-out Rome late in the evening, up into the mountains. Luca
loves American music, so we’re blasting the Eagles and singing “Take it... to the limit...
one more time!!!!!!” which adds an oddly Californian sound track to our drive through olive
groves and ancient aqueducts. We arrive at the house of Luca’s old friends Mario and Si-